Steven Hunley
05-19-2011, 12:34 AM
The Lonely Bull (or how the other half Dies)
by
Steven Hunley
The two waited. Fernando was from a small ranch outside Madrid. Esteban was from the countryside near Malaga. They were both there to die this afternoon. Hell of a sport anyway.
A crowd of people watching a killing. Some sit in the shade to watch, others in the sun, both lusting for blood.
Lousy blood-sports anyway. May they go the same way as your evil uncle.
Facing certain death they talked about certain subjects. Food, eating, cows they had known and loved, and not always in that order. They philosophize while they can, making the most of the moments left.
“I don’t want to die in the ring today,” said Esteban.
“Whether it is a muleta (sword) in the ring or a hammer in the head at the meat-packers, what difference does it make?” replied Fernando.
“It makes a difference to me.”
“Then make a difference yourself. Go out with style. Exhibit suavity and maturity. Teach the crowd what it’s like to die. Show them about how to face death with dignity.”
That made him feel better. He had pride in his profession.
“And why not?” Esteban countered, growing philosophical. “It’s my job. I come from just outside town. Some say it’s the best land for fighting bulls around. We bulls from Malaga, we take our jobs seriously.”
But Fernando’s mind had already turned to other things.
“Say, have you tasted the grass there?”
“Naturally. I was raised on it.”
“Did you taste that **** they call grass they fed us last night? I come from Madrid, the grass there tastes much better.”
“Whatever it tastes like, it’s nothing to the grass of my valley. The soil there gives it a flavor that cannot be compared. There’s nothing that tastes so good.”
Fernando hesitated a moment, he could smell the blood in the sand, then said,
“Mine is probably just as good. Pardon me if I seem arrogant about it. It’s not me, it’s the grass.
“No problem,” Esteban snorted, “I understand. Our emotions are on edge.”
“For me, it’s not so much the grass I miss, it’s my Rosalia. Now there is a woman with taste, if you get my drift.”
“I understand and agree,” he nodded. “A woman who tastes good is a rare thing.”
They both nodded their horns in unison. Snot flew from their flaring nostrils.
“And a woman must be tight. I like them tight you know.”
“I am in complete agreement. And it is acceptable for a woman to be fast.”
“Oh yes, I like my women fast.”
“But never fast and loose.”
“Si.”
“Certainly, such a woman, a woman who has toned intimate areas, is a delightful companion in the moonlight, in a field of sweet clover, on a warm summer night when the heat is up.”
“I agree. There is no doubt about that.”
Then Esteban pawed at the dirt with his hoof, grew thoughtful and said,
“Me, I like to do it at midday in an open field spotted here and there with yellow clumps of wildflowers, under the cool shade of a wild oak. I like the woodsie smell.”
“And the smell of your woman too?”
“Naturally.’
“A good smelling woman is a blessing of nature.”
“I agree...but what is better, smell or taste? A good tasting woman is hard to resist!”
“I concur. But smelling and tasting are related, are they not?”
“Oh yes, I agree, the two are related.”
“That is true,” Fernando remembered, as if it were last night. The scent of his woman. The feel of her wrapping around him, the noises they made when she came shook the countryside for miles.
But it wasn’t last night.
A crowd roared from the ring. They looked at each other. Both knew what it meant. Soon it was their turn to die.
The moment of truth had arrived for the two of them.
They flipped for who would go first. Esteban lost but took it with resignation.
“You’re after me,” he said to Fernando, who had a sudden look of compassion in his eyes.
“After all, what are a few moments more or less," Esteban tossed off cavalierly, "in this thing we call life?”
“Nothing at all,” snorted Fernando, agreeing. “No more than the dust at our feet.”
“Besides, it could be worse. The crowd could be a bus full of gringo tourists who don’t know the sport.”
“That is true.”
“They say the writer Hemingway is in the crowd.”
“Hemingway?”
“That’s what they say.”
“I’m impressed. I'll do my best."
The sound of horns blaring drifted into the pen with a vengeance. It was time.
Esteban walked out, horns held high, his eyes dashed with fire, his breath steaming from his nostrils with each step, proving he was a proud bull, a credit to his breed.
Esteban, more than any fighting bull that had ever been, was determined to show them the truth about Death in the Afternoon.
He took pride in his work.
.
by
Steven Hunley
The two waited. Fernando was from a small ranch outside Madrid. Esteban was from the countryside near Malaga. They were both there to die this afternoon. Hell of a sport anyway.
A crowd of people watching a killing. Some sit in the shade to watch, others in the sun, both lusting for blood.
Lousy blood-sports anyway. May they go the same way as your evil uncle.
Facing certain death they talked about certain subjects. Food, eating, cows they had known and loved, and not always in that order. They philosophize while they can, making the most of the moments left.
“I don’t want to die in the ring today,” said Esteban.
“Whether it is a muleta (sword) in the ring or a hammer in the head at the meat-packers, what difference does it make?” replied Fernando.
“It makes a difference to me.”
“Then make a difference yourself. Go out with style. Exhibit suavity and maturity. Teach the crowd what it’s like to die. Show them about how to face death with dignity.”
That made him feel better. He had pride in his profession.
“And why not?” Esteban countered, growing philosophical. “It’s my job. I come from just outside town. Some say it’s the best land for fighting bulls around. We bulls from Malaga, we take our jobs seriously.”
But Fernando’s mind had already turned to other things.
“Say, have you tasted the grass there?”
“Naturally. I was raised on it.”
“Did you taste that **** they call grass they fed us last night? I come from Madrid, the grass there tastes much better.”
“Whatever it tastes like, it’s nothing to the grass of my valley. The soil there gives it a flavor that cannot be compared. There’s nothing that tastes so good.”
Fernando hesitated a moment, he could smell the blood in the sand, then said,
“Mine is probably just as good. Pardon me if I seem arrogant about it. It’s not me, it’s the grass.
“No problem,” Esteban snorted, “I understand. Our emotions are on edge.”
“For me, it’s not so much the grass I miss, it’s my Rosalia. Now there is a woman with taste, if you get my drift.”
“I understand and agree,” he nodded. “A woman who tastes good is a rare thing.”
They both nodded their horns in unison. Snot flew from their flaring nostrils.
“And a woman must be tight. I like them tight you know.”
“I am in complete agreement. And it is acceptable for a woman to be fast.”
“Oh yes, I like my women fast.”
“But never fast and loose.”
“Si.”
“Certainly, such a woman, a woman who has toned intimate areas, is a delightful companion in the moonlight, in a field of sweet clover, on a warm summer night when the heat is up.”
“I agree. There is no doubt about that.”
Then Esteban pawed at the dirt with his hoof, grew thoughtful and said,
“Me, I like to do it at midday in an open field spotted here and there with yellow clumps of wildflowers, under the cool shade of a wild oak. I like the woodsie smell.”
“And the smell of your woman too?”
“Naturally.’
“A good smelling woman is a blessing of nature.”
“I agree...but what is better, smell or taste? A good tasting woman is hard to resist!”
“I concur. But smelling and tasting are related, are they not?”
“Oh yes, I agree, the two are related.”
“That is true,” Fernando remembered, as if it were last night. The scent of his woman. The feel of her wrapping around him, the noises they made when she came shook the countryside for miles.
But it wasn’t last night.
A crowd roared from the ring. They looked at each other. Both knew what it meant. Soon it was their turn to die.
The moment of truth had arrived for the two of them.
They flipped for who would go first. Esteban lost but took it with resignation.
“You’re after me,” he said to Fernando, who had a sudden look of compassion in his eyes.
“After all, what are a few moments more or less," Esteban tossed off cavalierly, "in this thing we call life?”
“Nothing at all,” snorted Fernando, agreeing. “No more than the dust at our feet.”
“Besides, it could be worse. The crowd could be a bus full of gringo tourists who don’t know the sport.”
“That is true.”
“They say the writer Hemingway is in the crowd.”
“Hemingway?”
“That’s what they say.”
“I’m impressed. I'll do my best."
The sound of horns blaring drifted into the pen with a vengeance. It was time.
Esteban walked out, horns held high, his eyes dashed with fire, his breath steaming from his nostrils with each step, proving he was a proud bull, a credit to his breed.
Esteban, more than any fighting bull that had ever been, was determined to show them the truth about Death in the Afternoon.
He took pride in his work.
.